


Arias for Swinging Lovers

by LateStarter58



Series: Theme and Variations: Tom and Livvy into the future [5]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Inspired by Music, opera - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-14 00:23:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17498123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: Livvy has a birthday surprise for Tom; he has an even bigger one for her in Paris.





	Arias for Swinging Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> After all the angst, something joyful for these guys...

It all started at Christmas, really. My rather extravagant gift to my girlfriend Livvy was a Steinway baby grand. Well, why not? I could afford it and after all, what’s the point of earning money if you don’t spend it on the people you love? The thing was gorgeous: sleek and black; it contrasted fabulously with my darling girl’s flame-red hair. I admit it dominated the sitting room but that was fine with me. My old upright went to a good home – the kids’ centre down the hill – and oh, it was such a joy to hear Livvy play and sing at home.

Then, during January, things began to get a bit suspicious. I’d hear Liv playing and singing softly when I came back from a run or whatever, but as I closed the door she would stop. Once or twice I caught her grabbing papers or a score and shoving them in her briefcase, trying to look casual. She always denied it, but she was clearly hiding something.  Since everything else was fine between us, I kept my mouth shut. If she was planning a surprise for me, who was I to spoil it? And frankly, I had enough on my plate at that time with work, and the troubles I was going through.

All became clear on my birthday. I awoke to find the other side of the bed warm but empty.

‘Livvy? Olivia?’ I called out but received no reply. I got out of bed reluctantly (I had hoped we could pick up where we had left off the night before, seeing as how we both had the day off), ignored my robe and ventured out.

“Liv? Where are you, darling?’

Then I heard the piano softly tinkling and Livvy’s beautiful, seductive rich mezzo-soprano voice drifting down the hallway to me.

_‘Mon coeur s’ouvre à ta voix…’_

I followed the sound and there was my love, my Olivia, at the keyboard, her eyes fixed on me as I entered the room.

_‘…comme s'ouvrent les fleursaux baiser de l'aurore!’_

I stood transfixed by the sight and sound of her: her hair blazing like fire in the weak February sunshine that was leaking in from the windows; her green eyes glistening with emotion as she sang; the graceful curve of her neck; the creamy soft skin over her collarbones that I wanted to taste at that very moment. I let my eyes run over the silky hills of her breasts under the robe she was wearing, then back up to her face. She smiled and began the next stanza. The timbre of her voice made my insides churn with longing. I had this visceral reaction to it every time. It has a rich, lush sound, not unlike her speaking voice, except writ large. It filled the high-ceilinged room with utter beauty. I am eternally grateful that I was able to help her find it again.

It makes me get hard whenever I hear it.

 Livvy’s eyes were fixed on mine now.

_‘Ainsi frémit mon coeur, prêt à se consoler…’_

So that was what she had been up to. I didn’t recognise the music, but I assumed it was an aria. I walked round to stand behind her and looked at the score. It was _Samson et Dalila_ by Saint-Saens. _Wow_. I didn’t even know he had written an opera; I am still learning about her world. She was still singing and it was gorgeous: sexy, beguiling, so very seductive. Her voice began to soar, and then fall in a cadence that made my heart ache.

_‘Ah! réponds à ma tendresse! Verse-moi, verse-moi l'ivresse!’_

She finished, sighed and smiled. I gathered her into my arms and took her back to bed. Birthdays don’t come any better than that one.

Fast-forward a couple of months and an idea had begun to form in my head. We’d both had a pretty tough winter. It had started well enough, with Liv getting an amazing, well-deserved offer from Radio 3 and going to Japan on assignment. Then I made the first really bad professional choice of my career, and was condemned to months of excruciating discomfort attempting to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Week after agonising week of turd polishing – not fun let me tell you. In the middle of all that Livvy’s father John had been diagnosed with cancer and things were looking bad for him. And then, just as he was going into the hospice, as if that weren’t enough, I came home one wet and chilly evening to discover Livvy in a terrible state. She was having a miscarriage and there was nothing we could do but endure it. Her Dad was dying and we had been so happy at the thought of telling him our good news; my lovely girl was suffering and I could do little to ease her pain except hold her and love her.

That night crystallised everything in my mind and, more importantly, in my heart. Livvy and I had been through so much together in such a short time and all of it, good and bad, happy and sad, all of it only made me love her more. I had known it from almost the first moment I saw her. We had a connection; a deep, unshakeable connection that meant there was only one way this was going to go.

We had planned a trip to Paris at the end of May, to the place we first ‘met’: L’Opéra Garnier. I had arranged it some time earlier when I was in the depths of my miserable winter, and now it was just a month away. Before Liv, I wasn’t given to big romantic gestures. I had scared a former girlfriend shitless once by turning up unexpectedly, so I had been more cautious since that debacle. But courting the irresistibly elusive Olivia Jackson had reawakened those impulses in me, and once I had decided what I wanted to happen in our box at _La Bohème,_ I started to think about the details and how to make it perfect.

Now, as you probably already know, I’m not much of a singer. I can do it, and carry a tune, as long as I am within my range, that is; but no great shakes. So when, one afternoon as I was reading a script and listening to some old swing tunes, an idea occurred to me, I knew I would need some proper help. A couple of calls did the trick and I was soon in touch with a professional who could coach me. Otherwise, all was set: I had made all the bookings, visited a certain store in Old Bond Street. You know, the one where everything comes in pretty blue boxes…?

****

Paris in late May was warm, crowded as ever, but its usual magical self. I thought about that autumn day eighteen months or so ago when I was dragged rather reluctantly to the opera. About the moment I saw her, below me in the stalls. Or rather, when I saw her hair. Something in me told me that this was a pivotal moment in my life, and when she turned her head and I saw her face, I knew why. Now I was in heaven, because I could look into that stunning, wonderful, unique face whenever I turned my head. No more long-distance wooing; the mysterious lady from that incredible night was next to me in the box, her eyes glued to the action on the stage.

I was enjoying the music too, don’t get me wrong, but I was a little distracted. First night nerves, I suppose you could call them. I had made all the arrangements ahead of time, confirmed them in whispered conversations with the waiter. He was to play a vital role in the climax of my little production. As the action moved on below us in the Paris of the Belle Époque, I felt my stomach tighten. I was about to attempt two things I had never done before, in front of the audience that meant the most to me in the whole world.

As the applause for the end of the first half died down, and people began to drift out to the bars, I nodded to my accomplice and a tinkling piano started up from the back of the box. I took a breath and tried to keep in mind all the things my singing teacher had told me. _Well_ , I thought, _here goes nothing. Or EVERYTHING._

_‘It’s very clear, our love is here to stay…’_

Now, I’m no Sinatra. I might have been wearing the tux, but I have no illusions on that front, believe me. However, I had been learning to sing this particular karaoke number properly because I wanted to show Livvy that I was prepared to go out of my comfort zone for her, once again.

_‘Not for a year, but ever and a day…’_

I kept my eyes locked on hers. She was smiling, her eyes wide with surprise and wonder at first, then wet with tears of joy as I continued. At least I hoped so; it could have been pain at the horrible racket I was making. I took the time the instrumental break gave me to kiss her mouth softly. Oh that mouth! How I had dreamed of it…

_‘The Rockies may crumble, Gibraltar may tumble, they’re only made of clay…’_

We stood and I put my arm around her waist and began to sway with her very gently, in the confined yet perfect space of our red velvet box.Her chest was heaving; I could tell she was struggling not to cry. I made her sit again and took her pale soft hand in mine.

_‘But oh my dear, our love is here to stay, together we’re goin’ a long, long way…’_

That was the waiter’s cue. As I went down onto one knee on the floor between our chairs he stepped beside me and produced the silver salver from behind his back. Not a glass of champagne this time, not a rose or some petits-fours.

Just a small blue box.

_‘Our love, our love is here to stay.’_

My beautiful Olivia reached for the box and opened it, her cheeks wet with tears. She seemed incapable of speech, but I could see she liked the ring; I had hoped she would. She nodded, took my hand and pressed it to her breast. As Nelson Riddle’s classic arrangement ended, she leaned forward and sang softly so only I could hear. That delicious sound had its usual effect on me.

_‘Mon coeur s’ouvre à ta voix…’_


End file.
